All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time, Seem the days when I wander'd with you, Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime, On the deeps that are trackless and blue.

And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill, And the howl of the forest is drear, I think of the lapse of our own native rill-- I think of thy voice with a tear.

The light of my taper is fading away, It hovers, and trembles, and dies; The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray, But sleep will not come to mine eyes.

Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieve O'er the joys that my childhood has known?

We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve, As we met in the days that are gone.

CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.

Though a native of Ireland, Charles Doyne Sillery has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of Caledonia. His mother was a Scotchwoman, and he was himself brought up and educated in Edinburgh. He was born at Athlone, in Ireland, on the 2d of March 1807. His father, who bore the same Christian and middle names, was a captain of the Royal Artillery.[24] He distinguished himself in the engagements of Talavera on the 27th and 28th of July 1809; but from his fatigues died soon after. His mother, Catherine Fyfe, was the youngest daughter of Mr Barclay Fyfe, merchant in Leith. She subsequently became the wife of James Watson, Esq., now of Tontley Hall, Berkshire.

Of lively and playful dispositions, Sillery did not derive much advantage from scholastic training. His favourite themes were poetry and music, and these he a.s.siduously cultivated, much to the prejudice of other important studies. At a subsequent period he devoted himself with ardour to his improvement in general knowledge. He read extensively, and became conversant with the ancient and some of the modern languages.

Disappointed in obtaining a commission in the Royal Artillery, on which he had calculated, he proceeded to India as midshipman in a merchant vessel. Conceiving a dislike to a seafaring life, after a single voyage, he entered on the study of medicine in the University of Edinburgh. From early youth he composed verses. In 1829, while only in his twenty-second year, he published, by subscription, a poem, in nine cantos, ent.i.tled "Vallery; or, the Citadel of the Lake." This production, which refers to the times of Chivalry, was well received; and, in the following year, the author ventured on the publication of a second poem, in two books, ent.i.tled "Eldred of Erin." In the latter composition, which is pervaded by devotional sentiment, the poet details some of his personal experiences. In 1834 he published, in a small duodecimo volume, "The Exiles of Chamouni; a Drama," a production which received only a limited circulation. About the same period, he became a contributor of verses to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. He ultimately undertook the editorial superintendence of a religious periodical.

Delicate in const.i.tution, and of a highly nervous temperament, Sillery found the study of medicine somewhat uncongenial, and had formed the intention of qualifying himself for the Church. He calculated on early ecclesiastical preferment through the favour of Her Majesty Queen Adelaide, to whom he had been presented, and who had evinced some interest on his behalf. But his prospects were soon clouded by the slow but certain progress of an insidious malady. He was seized with pulmonary consumption, and died at Edinburgh on the 16th May 1836, in his twenty-ninth year.

Of sprightly and winning manners, Sillery was much cherished in the literary circles of the capital. He was of the ordinary height, and of an extremely slender figure; and his eye, remarkably keen and piercing, was singularly indicative of power. Poetry, in its every department, he cherished with the devotion of an enthusiast; and though sufficiently modest on the subject of his own poetical merits, he took delight in singing his own songs. Interested in the history of the Middle Ages, he had designed to publish an "Account of Ancient Chivalry." Latterly, his views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. Shortly before his death, he composed a "Discourse on the Sufferings of Christ," the proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. As a poet, with more advanced years, he would have obtained a distinguished place. With occasional defects, the poem of "Vallery" is possessed of much boldness of imagery, and force and elegance of expression.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Captain Doyne Sillery was born in Drogheda, Ireland, of which place his father was mayor during the Rebellion of 1798, and where he possessed considerable property. He was descended from one of the most ancient and ill.u.s.trious families in France, of which the representative took refuge in England during the infamous persecution of the Protestants in the sixteenth century. On the reduction of priestly power in Ireland by Cromwell, the family settled in that portion of the United Kingdom. The family name was originally Brulart. Nicolas Brulart, Marquis de Sillery, Lord de Pinsieux, de Marinis, and de Berny, acquired much reputation from the many commissions in which he served in France.

(See "L'Histoire Genealogique et Chronologique des Chanceliers de France," tom. vi. p. 524). On the maternal side Captain Sillery was lineally descended from Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the famous chancellor.

SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.

She died in beauty! like a rose Blown from its parent stem; She died in beauty! like a pearl Dropp'd from some diadem.

She died in beauty! like a lay Along a moonlit lake; She died in beauty! like the song Of birds amid the brake.

She died in beauty! like the snow On flowers dissolved away; She died in beauty! like a star Lost on the brow of day.

She _lives_ in glory! like night's gems Set round the silver moon; She lives in glory! like the sun Amid the blue of June!

THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.

Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers, His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells; While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers-- The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain, For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells, And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain, That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.

Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, And shout in the chorus for ever and ever-- The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming, And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells, And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming On blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.

Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather, Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells-- Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together-- The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, And shout in the chorus for ever and ever-- The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

ROBERT MILLER.

Robert Miller, the author of the two following songs, was a native of Glasgow, and was educated for the legal profession. He contributed verses to the periodicals, but did not venture on any separate publication. He died at Glasgow, in September 1834, at the early age of twenty-four. His "Lay of the Hopeless" was written within a few days of his decease.

WHERE ARE THEY?

The loved of early days!

Where are they?--where?

Not on the shining braes, The mountains bare;-- Not where the regal streams Their foam-bells cast-- Where childhood's time of dreams And sunshine pa.s.s'd.

Some in the mart, and some In stately halls, With the ancestral gloom Of ancient walls; Some where the tempest sweeps The desert waves; Some where the myrtle weeps On Roman graves.

And pale young faces gleam With solemn eyes; Like a remember'd dream The dead arise; In the red track of war The restless sweep; In sunlit graves afar The loved ones sleep.

The braes are dight with flowers, The mountain streams Foam past me in the showers Of sunny gleams; But the light hearts that cast A glory there, In the rejoicing past, Where are they?--where?

LAY OF THE HOPELESS.

Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now O'er the restless and weary wave, Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough O'er the calm of my early grave-- And my heart with its pulses of fire and life, Oh! would it were still as stone.

I am weary, weary, of all the strife, And the selfish world I 've known.

I 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup, When youth and joy were mine; But the cold black dregs are floating up, Instead of the laughing wine; And life hath lost its loveliness, And youth hath spent its hour, And pleasure palls like bitterness, And hope hath not a flower.

And love! was it not a glorious eye That smiled on my early dream?

It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh, In the churchyard by the stream: And fame--oh! mine were gorgeous hopes Of a flashing and young renown: But early, early the flower-leaf drops From the withering seed-cup down.